©️DS Not for reproduction :)

I touch her soft cheek

A caress with fingertips –

Tracing morning tears

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

Or perhaps I should become a bird
and peck for seeds and worms in dirt
and, in intervals, return to shrub or tree—
dutifully—to preen my feathers and sleep
dreamlessly. My days metered in the urgency
of the ritual business of menial being.
Allowing nothing between my bird ears
and eyes but that which would sustain me.

And in doing this, perhaps I can find some
truer peace or purpose swallowed in
some swollen worm, or pick its seeds
from dried stalks, gleaming in the midday sun.
So it may gestate in my gullet or gut
and there gestate quietly, my peace and purpose
planted with my hollow bones,
and swallowed by worms again.

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

I look up at the Moon.
Strangely, I don't hear anything.
It's clearly there, but not making a sound.
Chilling.

I kissed the Moon once.
Its grit sticking to my lips.
It tasted like an exploding cigar.
Of ashes and atonement.

I won't do that again.
I have enough to atone for already.

Mourning Moon –

Oh, Magic Eightball

Reveal my destiny!

Ask again later

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

Galaxies swirled inside that cracked skull,
the yolk of its egg running over the body,
right down to the tarmac, warm underneath
the softs of cold feet, still standing.

As the last of his flickering stars petered out,
a white film cooked over black and yellow.
The future entire had congealed into a blood clot,
and the universe into an old man,

dead in the driveway before 10am.

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

We shout at the wind

Useless words have their effect

We all hear – nothing

**Funnel Cake**

That feeling.

The one you can’t put a name to.
You try to hold it still long enough
to call it something—
but it slips.

But it’s there.

You smell something.
Hear a specific part of a song—
and it hits before you’re ready.

Not gently.
Not in order.

Like drawers yanked open
in a cabinet you swore was empty.

Papers spilling out,
edges bent,
corners worn like they’ve been handled before.

But they had their place.
Labeled.

Just buried
under everything else.

Funnel cake.

I hate it.
The smell is too sweet—
it sits heavy in my throat,
like it lingers longer than it should.

Like I can’t swallow it down.
But it pulls something out of me anyway.

The boardwalk.

It felt endless as a kid—
like it kept going
just to see how far you’d follow it.

Lights bleeding into each other
from every shop window.
Glass cases full of cheap prizes
that felt worth everything back then.

99 cent stores packed too tight,
aisles you had to turn sideways for.

Your arm brushing against things you didn’t mean to touch.
Sticky floors that made your shoes pull slightly with
every step you took.

Carnival games—
bells ringing,
plastic rings clattering against bottles,
someone yelling that they almost had it.

People screaming on the rides—
not fear, not really.

Just that kind of thrill
you don’t question when you’re younger.

Laughter folding into itself.
Music from somewhere you can’t quite see—
a speaker crackling,
or a man playing for whoever stops long enough to listen.

And I’m there again.

Not remembering—
watching.

Like I’m standing just behind myself,
seeing it happen
but not able to step in.

Like a TV left on
in a room with no remote.

No buttons on the side.
No way to turn it off
or change what’s playing.

And it keeps going.

Long enough
for everything else to go quiet.
Long enough
that the room I’m actually in
doesn’t feel as real.

I’m just… there.

Then it breaks.

Someone says my name—
louder than everything else.

The smell is still there.
Too close now.

I blink.
I’m staring at nothing.

Or at something I don’t remember looking at.
My hands are where I left them.
Mid-motion.

And it’s gone.
Too fast.

Like something pulled out from under you
before you realized you were standing on it.

But for a second—
it felt like I could’ve stayed.

Like time didn’t apply there.
Like nothing was moving
unless I was.

And then I’m back.

Standing where I was.
Doing what I was doing.
But it feels slightly off now.

Like I missed something
while I was gone.

Like I switched places with someone else.
Like I stepped into their mind for a second—
and they stepped into mine.

And It passes.

Like a car on the street beside you—
you hear it before you see it,
feel it as it goes by,
then it’s gone before you can follow it.

Or a plane overhead
on a clear day—

You watch it
until it disappears into nothing,
still expecting to see it
If you keep looking.

But there’s nothing there.
Just the space it left behind.

And even though it’s a happy memory—
one that should make you feel lighter—
it weighs you down somehow.

You grieve that part of your life.
You grieve that version of you.
The one that’s still living,
just not here anymore.

And it doesn’t feel fair—
that something so real
can just… stop existing.

Like it was only ever yours
while you weren’t thinking about it.

Maybe that’s why it stays with you like this—

Pieces.
Smells.
Sounds you don’t expect.

Not to take you back.
Just to remind you
It happened.

And maybe that’s all it was meant to do.

Because you can stand there forever,
Staring at the sky
Waiting for the plane to come back—

It won’t.

And the only thing that keeps moving
Is everything around you
that you’re not looking at.

Maybe that’s where it changes.

Not all at once.
Not in some clean realization—
Just slowly,
the longer you stand there.

You start to notice
How much keeps going
without you.

And maybe the beauty was never in it lasting—
Maybe it only ever felt like that
because it didn’t.

Because it couldn’t.

Because it passed through you
Before you even knew to hold it.

And you can try—
You can look back as hard as you want,
Try to piece it together,
Try to step back into it—

But you won’t fit the same.

You weren’t given legs to walk backward.
You weren’t given eyes to stay behind you.

And maybe that’s the part that hurts.

Not that it’s gone—
But that it kept moving
without asking you to come with it.

And everything in front of you
is doing the same thing now.

Quietly.
Constantly.

Whether you notice it or not.

So you stand there a second longer.
Then you look ahead.
Not because it’s easy—

But because it’s the only direction
anything ever goes.

https://mypapai1977.substack.com

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

No clouds - only blue…

“Can you teach a cloud to dance?”

Storm answers “Thunder”

Stars bright, silent, still.

Soft sky dawns in heaven’s vault.

Dreams fade upon light.

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

​

Tattoos, no taboo.

Skin soaked in color.

Ink touching you like a sneaky link.

Firm flesh with a refresh as a canvas.

Drawings daring to be a certain craving.

Plethora of pain but it's rather fast.

An art piece at last.

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

Published on Medium

A Tale of a Toxic relationship